


Living Sculptures

by kinklock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Historical, Jane Austen romance interlude, M/M, Post S3 Fix-it, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Regency, Victorian, and they are all jealous of each other, continued fever dream, mini cases, mix of modern and period scenes, several Johns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-23 10:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6113477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinklock/pseuds/kinklock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reality of cocaine toxicity gives rise to more fantasy.</p><p>(Continuing from the last scene in TAB, Sherlock slips in and out of his alternate universe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I really liked TAB. Like, a lot. And I wanted to keep the same general thing going, except this time with rampant wish fulfillment and fun for Sherlock, who deserves it.
> 
> The first mini-case is inspired by The Adventure of the Abbey Grange, and the title is Pygmalion-ish, though I got the exact phrasing from the Pride & Prejudice soundtrack. Thanks to my betas Soli and Allison, and to my sounding board for the early concept, Anna. 
> 
> Quick note: Mary is not in this, but she is considered a villain, so heads up.

I.

Between their two bookcases, the fireplace was lit. Sherlock could scarcely remember a time when it wasn’t, or a time when Watson wasn’t sitting across from him, indulging in a pipe with one of his ridiculous romantic novels on the side table. In Sherlock’s strange visions of the future, that had not been the case. He found he much preferred his current situation where he had Watson all to himself, cocooned in their own little world.

Watson seemed to enjoy his conjecture about the future less than Sherlock had. His sharing it seemed to have only strengthened Watson’s intention to dispose of the contents of Sherlock’s morocco case.

Watson appeared to be mulling it over still, chewing on the end of his clay pipe in consternation. “Flying machines, speeding horseless carriages—any other fantastic devices?”

Sherlock smiled. He always enjoyed Watson’s questioning periods, even if they were about hazy dreams. “Many more than the ones I have listed. But there were even more fantastical details that I believe will be of interest to you, though they are unrelated to modern technologies.”

“Good Lord, Holmes, don’t leave me in suspense.” Watson leaned forward, as ever an attentive listener. It was just as Sherlock liked him best.

His smile tipped into mischievous. “Well, for example, you had a gun-wielding assassin for a wife...”

Watson burst into a fit of coughing, drawing his pipe away from his lips.

“...Who shot me.”

“Heavens, Holmes!” Watson cried, doubled over from coughing up half a lung. “Now that is fanciful!”

“Yes, nearly on par with your interpretations of our cases.” He smiled around his own pipe, his face beginning to ache from it.

Watson scoffed. “I wonder whether I should be offended or flattered by you assigning me a murderess for a wife. I suppose that would make my domestic life lurid enough to be of interest to you.”

“Pah!” In the face of Watson’s disgruntlement, he laughed, delighted. “In any case, I might suggest you not make vows to such a woman, if only for the sake of my continued existence.”

The slight twitch of Watson’s lips at this comment was a pale imitation of his earlier languid smiles.

His continued existence indeed. A moment passed where it was clear they both thought of the falls, and what might have transpired if Watson had not arrived in time to save him from Professor Moriarty. Despite his and Moriarty’s difference in height, it turned out he was not as strong in a physical bout atop a slippery precipice as he might have thought. The possibility that he would be the one to go over the side of the falls, either alone or with the professor, had been a near thing. Worse than the fear of losing his own life was the thought of leaving Watson to mourn for him; he felt that, strangely, with the bone deep intensity of the experienced.

Watson’s eyes on him appeared to mirror his own dark thoughts. The firewood popped in the grate as it burned, breaking Watson’s attention from him, but did not dispel the mood. When Watson spoke again, his jesting tone was gone.

“Quite right,” Watson replied, after some time had passed. “In fact, I might suggest I not make marital vows at all.”

Sherlock leaned back in his seat in ill-disguised astonishment. His friend had never spoken so plainly on the subject before, and in truth, he had long feared his Boswell could not stay by his side forever. The statement was nothing to be scoffed at, nor was it something Watson would have said on a whim. Watson was not like other men, who might bemoan the caprice of the fairer sex, only to be back in the game by the following evening.  

He did not know what to say in light of this, besides his own truth.

“I might suggest that I find that rather… agreeable,” he hazarded, and was rewarded for his bravery.  

The fire was hot at his right side, but Watson’s look was warmer.

There was something about Watson’s declaration that itched beneath the surface of his thoughts, attempting to climb to the forefront. He couldn’t put his finger on it, nor did he find he wanted to.

“Are you sure you’ve never had a wife?” His vision was becoming hazy. He blinked, making an effort to clear his eyes and mind.  

Watson snorted. “Reasonably sure, Holmes. Unless you suggest I’ve misplaced her.”

They were joking with one another again. His clarity returned. “Perhaps you lost her to consumption or some other untimely end,” he proposed, one eyebrow arched.

“Rather careless of me, dear boy,” Watson said, his voice at once low, and eyes dark.

As the subject was settled, they relaxed back into their chairs, exchanging glances that lingered longer each time their eyes met.

Mrs Hudson had retired for the evening. He thought to remark on it aloud, then wondered why he felt the need to state the obvious.

“Holmes, you don’t suppose—” Watson started, but broke off to place the pipe back between his lips. With a deep breath, one curled end of Watson’s moustache ticked upward.

Sherlock leaned forward to signal he was intrigued, and to hear Watson better, though in doing so he nearly slipped from his chair. With a steadying hand on the armrest, he prompted his friend to continue. “Yes, Watson?”

“Sherlock,” Watson said, and the surprise of hearing his Christian name caused Sherlock to lose his grip on the chair arm. So as to not fall forward, he overcorrected, sliding backward.

As he fell back into the upholstery, he found himself lying supine. Blinking, disoriented, Sherlock recalled why Watson’s claim to disavow matrimony had rung untrue.

 

  

II.

“Sherlock?”

It wasn’t Watson. Or rather it was, but the modern one. He would need to work on better sorting out the Johns, but first to gather his bearings. Intravenous line in the junction of his elbow, ECG leads sticky against his chest, lying back against well-washed and well-used sheets, lights dimmed, the rattling of a cart fifteen meters away—

Hospital. Worse than that, the general ward of a hospital. Silver lining—it was a private room. His eyes focused with weak accusation on (real) John, sitting beside him in a hard chair, back stiff, still in the clothes he was wearing on the plane.

“I’ve been admitted,” Sherlock croaked. John didn’t comment, but he did lift a cup of water to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock sipped from it, while glaring daggers over the rim. While he was relieved and glad John was present, it was soured by where they were. He cleared his throat.

“How could you let that happen?” Better. “John, I said I need to be back at Baker Street. Ideally, at a quarter past _right now_.”

John was not in an obliging mood. “Almost half of patients who come into emergency with cocaine toxicity get admitted,” John said, putting the cup back on its tray. “Plus, everything else that was on that list.”

John’s elbows pressed against his thighs as he rubbed his hands over his face. His tone was no-nonsense, and his face was lined with concern. The guilt that Sherlock had felt by the time of his second wake-up returned full force. Anxiousness roiled in his gut.

John sighed. “And please don’t tug at your IV port, you need that for the benzos.”

His hand, which he hadn’t been aware of, paused in its fiddling. Benzos. For God’s sake, was that necessary?

“As everything else on that list was carefully selected to balance the cocaine, _Doctor_ , why am I not back at home?” Sherlock had attempted to demand, but any strength his voice had gained had ebbed away by the end of the question into a weak scratchiness.

He felt awful. He was a mess, and he hated John seeing him like this, and yet, also would have hated to find John absent. Sherlock had woken in hospital enough times without being watched over by John Watson, and found this change vastly preferable. There was no one to lean over him to sing threatening lullabies, or to caress his hands and threaten the unimaginable.

Just reliable, present John. John, who he wanted to believe would always be there for him; always the two of them, no matter what. He had taken that for granted before, and then had doubted it. But he felt more certain now, more assured than he had in quite some time.

Sherlock was sick to death of facing it all alone. The part of him that he had buried was coming to the surface, the part that wanted John to fix everything, always, though it was childish and, worse—not about to happen. Conviction gained while in the deepest level of his fever dream did not always mean conviction in the light of day, while staring into John’s troubled face. John looked like a man at the end of his rope, and Sherlock still feared John would at last cut himself loose.  

“Sherlock,” John said, firm, but caring. “We did not go back to Baker Street because you passed out in the car like you did on the plane. Please tell me you remember anything that has happened in the last few hours.”

Sherlock did, a bit. He remembered being given benzodiazepines, as John had said, in lieu of being physically restrained. Perhaps that at least was a plus, though it had never been his drug of choice. “I’m not at risk for seizures and I’m fine now, so why don’t we—” He looked around; there had been more people with them before. “Where is Mary?”

As an afterthought, “And Mycroft?”

The Watson in his mind no longer had a Mary, but this John still did.

John let out a breath, something similar to a laugh. “With anyone else I would consider that a bad sign, but God knows you don’t notice people coming and going when you’re clean. It’s very late, Sherlock. She went home.”

“And you stayed?” The words came out before Sherlock could prevent the hateful neediness from making itself known.

Sherlock was still adrift. He remembered the other-other John, dressed as John was now, leaving him in a graveyard when Sherlock needed him the most. Even when Sherlock had begged him not to go.

This John looked back at him in apparent distress, brows drawn so far forward they shadowed his bright eyes.

“I’m not going to leave you alone Sherlock, not when you’re like this. I wanted to monitor your signs. And Mycroft was here for a while, but had to go eventually. Probably working on getting you that a pardon.” John forced a slight smile.

Sherlock was still thinking of the graveyard, but was trying to remember the falls.

“Will you stay, John?” He hadn’t wanted to say that, but he couldn’t remember why. He couldn’t even imagine why. It felt wonderful to say. “Stay here with me?”

“Yeah, of course,” John’s concerned voice replied, close to him, hovering above his bed. Sherlock didn’t remember John standing, but he must have been, to be that high above him. Almost floating. Sherlock thought of telling him to get down from there.

“Sherlock, of course I’ll stay.”

True to his word, John stayed, though Sherlock did not.

 

 

III.

There were slippers on his feet and one of Mrs Hudson’s fine roasts in his belly. His fingers reached for his pocket, where he found his watch. It was late in the evening, and he couldn’t recall what he was waiting for.  

“What developments, Holmes?” Watson asked.

Sherlock looked up, startled. They were sitting at their cluttered dining table—a hat box with an alarming smell to his left, and a 1816 painting of two gentlemen riding in the countryside to his right. Their plates had been cleared long ago, and Watson sat across from him, as always, eyeing him with curiosity.

“I’m sorry?” 

“You said you expect developments,” Watson explained, one eyebrow lifted. “I was wondering if you might tell me what they are before they become apparent, or if you were going to maintain your usual suspense.”

“Will you be cross with me if I remain vague?” Though, currently his lack of forthrightness was not for the sake of drama.

The curve of Watson’s lips indicated he would not be cross, before he said it aloud. "Not at all. As in all things, I trust your judgment."

“Perhaps you will gather what happens next if we review the details of the case,” Sherlock prompted, the activities of their past week returning to him as if they had never left. How strange that he should have forgotten.

Watson followed his suggestion, and began to summarize. “The Colonel was found dead in the pond, on his grounds, by one of his servants. What initially appeared to be a drowning was however clearly a murder—”

“Yes, you are too clever to be fooled by that,” Sherlock interrupted, recalling Watson’s masterful examination of the body, which had gained them a new case.

Watson inclined his head. “It was a simple inference, as you well know. And then—really, must I go over the rest of it Holmes? You have already so much as told me you believe the culprit to be the past lover of the Colonel’s wife, Mr Sampson.”

“Have I?” he asked, surprised to hear it. “And why couldn’t it be the wife herself?”

“It could very well be,” Watson conceded. “Both of them in it together was my guess. Only, you then implied it was Sampson acting alone.”

It was news to him that Watson had his own theory.

“You believe they collaborated?” The idea was intriguing.

Watson nodded. “Well, he would need a confidante.”

A memory triggered, and then passed as soon as it came.

“But would she have agreed to kill her own husband, had Sampson asked her?” he wondered, suddenly desperate for Watson’s answer. “To assist in removing her own husband, the man she believed to be the father of her unborn child?”

Watson leaned forward, his forefinger wagging at him. “Ah Holmes, you forget! She married the Colonel before learning that he had been the cause of her previous lover’s long time away at sea. She very likely holds a grudge.”

Watson was making incredible points, which Sherlock should have thought of himself. Why hadn’t he? Why had he been so single-minded? But the possibility of his own theory still remained. If Sampson had acted alone...  

“If she didn’t know,” he began, hesitant. “Do you think she could forgive Sampson for what he had done? Would you forgive him for it?”

“Would I?” Watson laughed. “What the devil does it matter what I would feel?”

“Nothing matters more my dear boy,” he asserted. “Would you forgive the sailor for his crime?”

Watson leaned further forward on their table, as if to emphasize the importance of his stance. “Holmes, the Colonel was an ill-tempered brute with a long held grudge against our sailor, and who thought his own wife an easily fooled simpleton. I believe you are making that mistake as well, I might add, and are not giving her enough credit. I suspect she is a co-conspirator. Regardless, Sampson’s motives were pure at heart, and his actions were spurred by loyalty and affection.”

“So you mean to say…?”

“I would forgive him, of course.”

Sherlock studied the lines of his old friend’s face, but found no doubt, nor indecisiveness in his answer. Watson did not judge the sailor for his actions in the slightest. More than that, even, he supported him. “You truly believe the woman capable of agreeing to her husband’s execution at Sampson’s hand?”

Watson smiled, though his eyes remained grim. “I’m afraid he wasn’t a very good husband, Holmes, which she realized too late. In fact, I imagine she regrets her decision most keenly.”

Their eyes locked. He could not recall a time they had discussed the players in a case with as much gravity or personal investment. “Does she? Regret the marriage?”

“Yes,” Watson said. “And I believe she loves her sailor still.”

A sadness overcame him. “If she ever did at all.”

Watson scoffed, as if he were being ludicrous. “Really Holmes, there’s no doubt of her affection for him, to anyone with eyes.”

The table stretched out in front of him, separating Watson and himself. They might have stared at one another for quite some time, at an impasse, if not for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

“Dear God, who is that, coming here at this hour?” Watson asked, rising to his feet. 

“That, my dear Watson, is our developments. I hope you won’t mind playing judge and jury to determine our sailor’s fate.”

“Really Sherlock,” Watson said, and the sound of his name was warm and natural. Perhaps they had been on such familiar terms for some time. Yes, that seemed right.

A man burst through their door, breath heaving from his lungs, the telegram Sherlock had sent clutched in the man’s large hand.

“Ah, Mr Sampson, I see you got my note.”

He normally enjoyed this part more with Watson in the dark, as it allowed him to demonstrate his talents to a praising audience. However, now that Sherlock had told him ahead of time what to expect, Watson shot him a knowing, mischievous look. Sherlock found he liked that quite a bit more.

“Watson, give the man a cigar, and seat him by the fire,” he said, lighting a match. “Let’s start our acquaintance afresh, Mr Sampson. Prepare to tell me everything you know.”

But the match flickered, turning blinding and bright, and he was lost again.

 

 

IV.

When he opened his eyes, John was hovering above him. “Sherlock? You still with me?”

Sherlock was beginning to experience whiplash. While the cocaine remained in his system, he supposed there were only more such visions to come. At least here was John, his John, whose moral code might just extend to areas he had not yet dreamt of entertaining. Was John so wholly on his side?

“How long was I out?” Sherlock asked instead.

“Out…?” John repeated. “You mean, how long were you not talking with your eyes closed? It’s only been a few seconds.”

Time passed differently in the other place, more of it passing the further into himself he dared to descend. Which meant he was still in rather deep.

“The cocaine. Still in my system,” Sherlock said as explanation. He was only able to parse out small details at a time. That was likely due to the benzos. Under normal circumstances, he would hate stating the obvious.

“Are you feeling better?” John asked, with more urgency than Sherlock thought was warranted. “Well enough to have a chat, I mean?”

Unable to sit up, Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eyes, as John sat back down. “A chat? About my well-being, I suppose, and how I’m poisoning myself. Entirely unnecessary John, as I already said while I was attempting to return to Baker Street, I don’t need it any more.”

“Yeah, that’s actually what I wanted to talk about." John's voice was lowered when he spoke again. “The other thing you said before we left. What did you mean, when you said you knew what Moriarty was going to do next?”

Sherlock saw the multiple paths this conversation could take winding out ahead of him. At one end was not allowing John entrance to his thoughts and plans, another was John leaving him in distaste, and another—Watson kicking Moriarty off the falls, and _‘I would forgive him, of course.’_

But did he trust his own mind, and what he thought he knew of John Watson?

“What if I told you,” Sherlock began, “that I’ve made mistakes in the past. By keeping you in the dark.”

He watched John’s fair eyelashes blink. “You mean about you not being dead?”

John’s tone was neutral, but Sherlock felt the words like a lance being run through him. John was inscrutable, at times. Sherlock couldn’t tell any more. He didn’t know if all was forgiven, or if it was to be forever a sore spot. There was so much not knowing, he was choking on it.

Sherlock thought of sitting across from his Watson, seconds before, and what the man would say. He was smiling, as if he found Sherlock a tad silly. _‘You could always just ask.’_ Oh. Right.

He craned his neck to the side to have a full view of John’s reaction. “Do you still blame me for that?”

John frowned, which was worrying, but his words were calming. “It’s true that I was very angry with you, at first. But we—in the train car. I said I forgive you, and I meant it. Have I given you any indication that I’ve gone back on it?”

Sherlock shook his head in great relief. “You haven’t, no. Of course you haven’t. Returning to the point, yes I mean not telling you I was alive, but I was referring to more than that. Other things.” Mary.

John looked as though he understood. Perhaps, John knew everything already?

“Yeah, I sort of noticed, what with you in hospital over it, Sherlock.”

No, then. John meant the drugs, of course. John, as he often did, had misinterpreted him.

“Not to mention, you love your dramatic reveal too much to ever share the details with me beforehand.”

Sherlock winced, and John rushed to correct his truthfulness, though the damage was already done.

“Sorry, I’m not—God Sherlock, I’m not actually mad about that. I’m worried about you. You just OD’ed for Christ’s sake. And now we have to worry about Moriarty again, apparently.”

Sherlock allowed his breathing to even out. The topic had returned to what he wanted to discuss, at least.

“I know, which is why I want you to know,” he said, fortifying himself, trying to hold onto all he had learned. “I’ll include you this time, John. I won’t shut you out, I promise. I’ll do it over. We’ll do it all over again, I swear it.”

John’s face was becoming difficult to see, his normally familiar and distinct expression blurred, but his voice sounded alarmed. “Do what over again?”

Everything.

 

 

V.

With a firm seat in his saddle and his thoughts elsewhere, Sherlock road along a country path through the forest, soon to approach his destination. Riding helped him think almost as well as the violin, and removed himself from his transport almost as well as the prick of a needle.

However, allowing his attention to be so diverted from the road, it turned out, was a mistake on his part. By the time he’d spotted the limping boy, it was too late.

The boy was young, though old enough to be recruited into his Irregulars, if they had met under different circumstances. He was sure he would have done so in fact, as the boy was quite good at faking an injured leg, though not well enough to fool him.

“You might actually hurt yourself if you keep that up,” Sherlock called out when he was close enough to be heard, slowing his horse. He was beginning to regret choosing to ride alone, on horseback, rather than taking the carriage with his packed trunk to the house. His eccentricities might one day get the better of him.

The boy was clever enough to know he’d been caught out, not that it mattered. The trap had been laid and set as soon as Sherlock had ridden in this direction.

As Sherlock predicted, there was rustling in the brush to his right, left, and behind him. A group of men circled him soon after. There were only three of them, but more could have been lurking in the foliage.

“We don’t want any trouble,” one of them said.

“I beg to disagree,” he replied, not yet prepared to dismount, though he suspected that would be how this played out.

He could have ridden away, if not for the rope up ahead, suspended between the thick trunks of two trees. It was almost invisible, and had been intended for him to ride off into at a mad pace, only to be knocked from his horse when he hit the line. For a moment, he considered how low he might be if he were to bend over the back of his saddle. His horse’s head would still be in the way. Damn.

“You’re out of luck with me I’m afraid,” he said, nonchalant. “Though the horse will fetch you a pretty penny I grant you.”

“A gentleman like you without any money on ‘im?” the ringleader, or so it seemed, said. “Drag him down and search him. If you can’t find a purse, we can still take his fine clothes.”

The man at least had good taste, Sherlock supposed. He evaluated his chances; fighting three (and a half) hardened road thieves on his own was possible, but not a guaranteed win by any means. If he had nothing of value on his person, which he was well aware he did not, it might come to that regardless.

True to their word, he was dragged down from his horse, his top hat tumbling off in the process. Once on the ground, he submitted to their manhandling, for a spell. When the smaller of the brutes attempted to divest him of his tailcoat, he snapped his arm in towards his side causing the man to fall forward. This placed him at an ideal height for Sherlock’s elbow to connect with his jaw.

When the other two men realized there might be a struggle, both drew out knives. Meanwhile, the young boy inched towards his horse. Sherlock, breathing hard, and stepping backward after releasing the man and his coat, evaluated his options. Even with his infinitely sharper wits, a man with a knife in close combat could succeed in getting in a cut. Several, even.

He was disturbed from his estimation by the sound of a horse, originating from the woods rather than down the path. He resisted turning to face the newcomer, given that there were two men brandishing knives in front of him. “Really?” he cried out, “Are more of you needed against one man?”

“Actually, I thought I’d even out the odds,” spoke a voice behind him, and the young boy dashed for the trees.

Turning, Sherlock found himself looking up at a red coat, and the business end of a military issue pistol. His saviour was a blond man with a tanned, well-lined face in full military officer regalia. Sherlock could see why the boy had run; the man was imposing, though made more so by his posture and confidence than by his physical build.

Deeming themselves outmatched by two men and one gun, his attackers scattered. One pulled his knife back while ducking into the brush across, while another ran after the boy, and the last swung himself up onto the saddle of Sherlock’s horse.

The officer on horseback made to follow the man in pursuit, but Sherlock pulled at his horse’s reins as he passed. The officer looked down at him, perplexed, but halted.

“There is no point in exhausting your horse and potentially injuring yourself in pursuit of a common thief, nor would it be in aid of catching the lot of them.”

The man’s look of confusion turned to appraisal. “How so? What do you mean?”

“He won’t be able to sell that horse in town. Or at least, not without being noticed by its owner, the only buyer for miles. He will be forced to return to his friends in the woods regardless, and the horse will help the authorities identify him, one would hope, once the tip-off is provided. Their capture is a matter of sending a letter, at most.”

“Brilliant,” the officer replied, with an easy and open admiration. “But what is to be done in the meantime? Is there somewhere I can take you, Mister...?”

“Holmes,” Sherlock replied. “Sherlock Holmes. And yes, there is somewhere, though there will be no need to go out of your way. Our destination is the same.”

The office raised a brow at that, but made no comment. Dropping down from his horse, the officer offered his hand to conclude their introduction. “John Watson, that is—”

“Captain Watson,” Sherlock finished, taking the offered hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Good Lord, you are perceptive,” Captain Watson said, shaking his hand with a firm grip. “And how do you know we are going the same way?”

“I inferred it. Stamford’s country abode is the only house for quite a ways, and you were riding in that direction.”

“Well sir, you are correct,” Watson said with a dip of his head. “I suppose you inferred it the same way you thought out how to catch the men accosting you on the road?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and had intended to say more, but was distracted when Watson bent down to retrieve his hat and tailcoat from the road. Watson handed the hat to him directly, but gave his tailcoat a shake to remove any dirt, and then held it out for him, as a manservant might.

Sherlock turned to slip his left arm through the sleeve, while Watson lifted the jacket high enough for it to settle onto his taller frame. Watson’s hands were light on his shoulders for a matter of seconds, and gone again just as quickly.

Once the job had been done, Watson smirked at him. “I can see why you might have been picked by thieves. I mean, aside from being in the wrong spot at the wrong time.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to be confused. “I beg your pardon?”

Watson’s head dipped towards Sherlock’s recently returned tailcoat.

Sherlock smoothed his hands down the front of the garment, feeling the dark blue wool through his gloves, and stopping to finger one of the gold buttons. He could own that it was perhaps ostentatious. It was almost purple, in certain lights. “It’s in fashion,” he defended, bottom lip jutting out. “Too much, I suppose?”

“Oh no, not at all. Just the right amount,” Watson said, eyes warm on Sherlock’s puffed sleeves and high-neck collar. “But certainly attention grabbing. Bad news on the road, but an excellent choice, I understand, for the events of the evening planned tonight.”

The events of the evening? As there were no thoughts in his head beyond the specific business Stamford had engaged him for, he was unsure what Watson referred to.

His lack of understanding must have shown on his face, as Watson clarified. “There are ladies in our party, and Mr Stamford expects us men to dance with them this evening. A well-dressed entrance will do wonders for your dance card.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, arms clasped behind his back. “Impressing the ladies in attendance, in truth, is not my bent.”

“Really,” Watson replied, and there was more to the word than was said. Watson’s eyes still hadn’t drifted from him. Watson gave the impression that he might be wondering what Sherlock’s bent actually was.

“I imagine arriving in regimentals will do much more for your dance card, Captain,” he hazarded, attempting to continue the light, teasing quality of their conversation.

Watson shook his head with a chuckle. “Good to hear, though I don’t have much choice on my dress.”

When Watson’s head lifted, round blue eyes lighted on Sherlock’s face once more, turning serious.

“You are not otherwise hurt?” Watson asked, genuine concern evident in his tone.

He rotated his pulled shoulder in its socket, and found nothing out of place. “No, I’m quite all right.”

With a nod, Watson lifted himself back into his horse’s saddle, and held out a hand down to him. “As you’ve prevented me from reclaiming your horse, we’ll have to share.”

With his foot in the stirrup and his hand grasped in Watson’s, he was assisted onto the back of the horse. As the saddle was intended for one man rather than two, Sherlock found he was pressed against Watson’s back no matter how much he shifted and readjusted once seated.

Watson spoke to his horse, and with a small pressure exerted with his heels, they were off down the forest path the same way Sherlock had been headed. At perhaps the last possible moment available to them, Sherlock remembered why he had not escaped by horse.

His arms snaked around Watson’s torso and grasped the other man’s hands on the reins, pulling back hard. “Woah!” Sherlock shouted, and the horse almost reared, but did stop.

Sherlock had expected Watson to be surprised by their sudden halt, but he had caught on it seemed. “There’s a line across the path!” Watson cried, sounding short of breath. “Christ, I hadn’t seen it at all! How did you notice?”

“As you said, I’m rather perceptive.” His chin was resting on Watson’s shoulder, cushioned by the red coat’s epaulette, and he was still grasping Watson’s hands. Sherlock released him, and attempted to retreat backward within the space available to him.

“I didn’t think I’d be using this on my ride over,” Watson commented while drawing his sword, and cut the rope with one swift stroke.

With the rope disposed of, and Watson’s sword returned to its sheath, they continued down the path unmolested. Sherlock’s hands returned to Captain Watson’s person, a light hold around his hips. His hold tightened once they were clear of the woods and Watson’s horse could gallop, forcing him to press along Watson’s back.

They crested the top of a hill, and Stamford’s country home rose into view. Watson stopped his horse, giving her a chance to rest, taking in the sight of the house. Remote, country homes always had an air of mystery about them, and Stamford’s was no different.

“You’ve proven yourself adept at apprehending thieves,” Sherlock observed, speaking over the top of Watson’s shoulder.

Watson twisted his neck to look at Sherlock in interest. “I didn’t actually apprehend any thieves,” Watson said, rather glib. “Someone prevented me.”

“A minor detail. They will be caught in short order, and due to your assistance.” Sherlock paused for effect, his mouth turning up at the corner. “Interested in apprehending some more?”

“God, yes,” Captain Watson said at once, nearly out of breath. “But what do you mean? What thieves?”

“My dear Watson,” he replied looking out over the countryside, “you are about to learn what my ‘bent’ is.”

 

Stamford received them outside of his home with great surprise. “I was not aware that the two of you knew each other,” he said, as if knowing one another would account for them sharing a horse.

“Intimately,” Sherlock replied, and Captain Watson laughed. Stamford didn’t seem to know quite what to make of them. They coordinated dismounting, while a servant rushed out to take care of the horse.

“Captain Watson is my saviour of the afternoon,” Sherlock explained to Stamford once on the ground. “But don’t trouble yourself, you may still take full credit for us having been made acquainted. We wouldn’t want anyone to think we hadn’t been properly introduced by a third party.”

With efficiency, Sherlock explained that the authorities would need to be informed about a stolen horse and thieves on the road. Stamford relayed the details to a servant, but by then, the issue was far from Sherlock’s mind. He was ready to begin their little game.

Stamford led them into his home, large enough for entertaining the small assembly planned, but not many more.

Beneath his breath, and well out of hearing of the servants, Sherlock said, “I’m very much looking forward to our evening’s entertainments, but perhaps we should discuss a few practical matters in your study before settling in?”

Stamford blinked at him, before glancing back at Captain Watson standing behind him. “Yes, of course. Captain, are you—?”

“Let us all go in then directly,” Sherlock interrupted, leading the way. “Watson, you as well.” Captain Watson followed without question, and with no reaction at all to the removal of his title. Stamford sighed, but was close on their heels.

Once within the safety of the study, and with the door closed behind them, he turned on the ball of his foot to face the two of them. “Mr Stamford I hope you’ll forgive me for inviting another man into your confidence, but I believe he will be of assistance.”

Stamford’s easy manner was to not mind anything much at all, and he turned to give a small smile to Watson. “Ah, yes, quite all right. Whatever you feel is best for solving my dilemma. I suppose Mr Holmes has already brought you up to speed on it then?”

“He’s actually told me nothing at all,” Captain Watson answered, with a genial look to Stamford, and a stern look his way. It might have sounded like reproof, but the cant of his lips gave him away. Watson was amused by him, which somehow made everything that much more thrilling.

Sherlock inclined his head. “Mr Stamford, if you’d be so kind as to go over the details for Captain Watson.”

Stamford obliged him. “Well gentlemen, we’re after a jewelry thief.”

A brooch in Stamford’s possession, kept in a locked box in a locked drawer along with a few other precious items, had gone missing. Stamford, hating to cause a scandal and not wishing to needlessly stress his servants, had asked his friend Holmes for advice on the matter.

Perhaps due to the extreme enui Sherlock had been experiencing at the time, he had devised a scheme for luring the thief out of hiding. Stamford was to act as if he had not yet noticed the item missing, and to invite a party of guests to his home _tout suite_ to lure the thief into an attempt to steal again, relying on the thief’s greed and belief they could get away with it.

Watson listened to the plan with rapt attention. “And neither the drawer, nor the box, had been forced?” he asked at the end of the explanation, to Sherlock’s delight.

“Excellent question, no and no,” Sherlock said, hands clasped behind his back.

“So then, the thief is a lock pick?”

“Not quite,” Sherlock smiled, “but a good guess.”

“I had a spare,” Stamford explained, in an attempt at re-entering the conversation, “which has since gone missing.”

“So the thief still has it,” Sherlock said. “Meaning?”

“We can likely rely on them to take advantage of the opportunity to act again,” Watson concluded for him, and Sherlock beamed at him with undisguised pride. Watson returned his smile, before turning back to Stamford.

“And no servants have left mysteriously in the night, I suppose?”

“Not one I’m afraid,” Stamford replied, “though I do hate to think it someone in my employ. I’m terribly fond of them all.”

“We will learn soon enough,” Sherlock assured him, ready to prepare the final touch.

“Do we catch the thief while they are returning to the drawer?” Watson asked.

“No, no, no,” Sherlock replied, turning away from his captive audience and towards Stamford’s desk. He rifled through the contents on top with little care till he found a blank piece of paper. Stretching his body across the desk, he reached for a pen.

“What if the culprit sees we are manning the room instead of enjoying ourselves with the other guests?” Sherlock continued, beginning to write. “We could scare them off, and it would all be for naught.”

“How, then?” Watson asked.

“Why, with this!” With a flourish, he lifted his piece of paper high in the air, before presenting it to Watson.

Stamford had to lean in over Watson’s shoulder to read it out. “ _‘I know it was you. Meet me in the drawing room at half past nine.’_ Lord, Holmes, you know who it is already?” Stamford asked.

Watson’s eyes darted up from the paper to marvel at him, waiting in suspense for his answer.

With a grin, he replied, “I haven’t the faintest. But the thief doesn’t know that.”

Watson chuckled. “Brilliant.”

“We shall slip into the room just before the time of meeting, easily done as the assembly will be in the room across the hall. And we will have Captain Watson with us, in the event there is an altercation.”

“Yes! Oh, good thinking,” Stamford commented, looking between the two of them with a grin. “Heaven knows I’m not in the shape I once was.”

“Assuming he is interested in assisting, of course,” Sherlock clarified, forgetting himself. He was being presumptuous, and perhaps the Captain would be offended if he continued assuming his assistance.  

But Captain Watson’s back seemed to have only become straighter, and his eyes only keener. “Consider me at your disposal.”

“Excellent! Sign here Mr Stamford, if you will. Now, the only thing left to do is plant the note, and wait.”

The evening couldn’t have come soon enough for Sherlock, but at last, the other guests arrived and were hosted with grace by Mr Stamford and his wife. He and Captain Watson were the rare few in attendance who were not neighbours and would be staying at the estate. He had bid farewell to Watson in the afternoon to rest before dinner and change into their evening finery. It was a relief when Watson was down before him, entertaining with Stamford in the drawing room.

Captain Watson was well-versed in the standards of social decorum, though his interactions remained civil and superficial. It was clear that he and Stamford were old acquaintances, but did not share a close intimacy. He could see Watson was not open or familiar with many, but could make himself appear otherwise when he put his mind to it. Despite there being handsomer and taller men in the room, he charmed the ladies present effortlessly. Captain Watson was quick with socially acceptable witticisms, rather than his own acerbic ones, and was smooth and courteous. He didn’t pick favourites amongst the ladies, and even rushed to assist Mrs Stamford when her hand had shook and almost spilled her refreshment. He was the picture of gentility, and Sherlock rather wished the women would stop whispering ‘an officer’ behind their hands.  

Watson’s regimentals were eye-catching. Distracting. It was a good thing the object of the evening was to apprehend a petty thief, rather than anything actually strenuous on the mind.

Dinner passed in similar fare, with vapid conversation, and adequate food that he barely ate. Women attempted to engage him in dinner conversation, which he avoided with a lifetime of developed deftness. His host and hostess didn’t call on him to speak, or draw attention to his profession, thankfully.

After dinner, the group dissolved into those interested in playing cards, or dancing, with him left as the solitary figure interested in neither. The dancing was a haphazardly arranged affair; one lady with particular skill at the piano was called on to play a jig, while three couples at most danced at a time, with Captain Watson dancing each and every one.

Sherlock surveyed the room from his preferred position by the mantle, avoiding the card tables and the dancing line formation. Watson kept catching his eye from over the shoulders of his dancing partner. The slight tilt to his mouth suggested he and Sherlock were sharing a private joke. He couldn’t help but return the expression, though he wasn’t sure what the joke was.

Watson, at last, begged off one dance, and came to stand with him. “You won’t dance?” he asked, face flushed from exertion.

He shook his head. “As I told you on the road, that was not my plan for the evening.”

“And nothing can be done to persuade you, I suppose?” Watson asked, teasing him. Being teased by someone in such a gentle way was new to him, yet felt simple and easy with Watson.

“I live in wait of the right partner,” Sherlock said, regretting it soon after.

Watson looked out across the room. “None of the ladies here meet your standards?”

“No, though not by any fault of their own,” he replied, not wishing to give offence, but as a result continued to show too much of his hand. Watson’s eyes were on him at once, curious.

Before Watson could probe further, Sherlock observed, “It’s almost time.”

Despite not being in hearing range, Stamford got up to leave the room, saying to one guest he would return shortly.

“Shall we follow?” Watson asked, rocking on his heels, eager for the possible confrontation. Sherlock realized Watson found the assembly as tedious as he did, and had been looking forward to being made useful: a pleasant thought.

“We will wait a few more minutes so as not to be conspicuous, then slip out.”

Sherlock had to admit, though it was begrudging, that Watson had danced enough dances for a rest to seem reasonable at that time of the evening. It was clever of him, as his absence would not be as missed.

They joined Stamford in the room across the hall, causing him to jump near to three feet in the air when they opened the door. “Apologies Mr Stamford,” Sherlock said, while twisting his head to look about the room. No one else had arrived, nor had anyone else been in before them only to get cold feet and leave before their scheduled meeting.

“They’re late,” Stamford said, nervous. His initial enthusiasm for Sherlock’s plot had waned now that the criminal’s capture was upon them. His constitution was not well-suited for this sort of excitement.

In contrast, Captain Watson was in the process of positioning himself to the right of the door, where he would not be in line of sight. Sherlock went to join him, knocking elbows in his haste.

Stamford stayed where he had been when they’d entered, though he had difficulty not pacing on the spot.

“Mr Holmes,” Watson began beneath his breath, “What if the servant has already taken flight? Should one of us not guard the entrances and exits?”

“A very reasonable suggestion,” Sherlock praised, “but in a moment you’ll see why the precaution is unnecessary.”

Watson eyed him with ever growing curiosity. “And,” Sherlock continued, feeling brave, “just ‘Holmes’ will do.”

Sherlock had hoped to see his reaction, but Watson’s attention had been drawn from him by the twisting door handle, followed by the creak of the door’s hinges.

Stamford became the image of stillness, and Watson watched with bated breath.

Stamford had the first view of the criminal of the hour. His reaction of choice was a sharp intake of breath in recognition, which had Watson reaching for his pistol.

“Jane!” Stamford managed to at last cry out, and as the figure stepped into their line of sight, Watson removed his hand from his pocket.

“Mrs Stamford?” Watson mouthed, just as the lady stepped past the edge of the opened door.

“Michael, forgive me,” the lady of the house said, reaching out toward her husband. In her cupped palms rested a brooch.

“You had it, all this time? But why, my dear?” Stamford asked. “I thought I might never see it again, and worse, have to let go one of our servants! I invited Mr Holmes here with the expectation that a scheme was needed!”

Mrs Stamford’s head turned towards the door, where he and Watson still stood. “Oh, I wish this did not need to be known by anyone else! And yet, this is all my own doing.”

“Do not distress, Mrs Stamford,” Sherlock soothed. “Watson and I only wished to ensure your husband’s safety in the event of a fight. We can leave you to discuss in private, if you wish.”

“You needn’t go now. In fact, I’d prefer you didn’t, as I would at least like to explain my actions, though you will likely think me even more foolish for them.”

Sherlock bowed his head in concession, while Watson appeared relieved that he would be able to hear the explanation. Stamford reached forward to hold her arm, hand clasped at her elbow to comfort her.

“I’m dreadfully sorry Michael, I don’t know what came over me,” she said, emotion overcoming her voice, and appearing near tears. “I found it in your lockbox once when you asked me store your father’s pocket watch. And admittedly, I inspected it. I tried to—push it from my mind, not to think of it, but my imagination ran away with me!”

“How so, dearest?” Stamford, not an overly imaginative man, was still puzzled.

“How can you not know what I mean?” she asked, voice raising. “It’s a woman’s brooch, with a lover’s inscription, which you were keeping as if it were a prized possession!”

This appeared to be news to Stamford.

“I thought—oh, I can hardly bear to say it, the plan was so ill-thought out and speaks so poorly of me—but I thought I would see how you would react to its disappearance. But then, you never spoke of it to me. I couldn’t be sure if you had noticed, or when I should return it. I started checking the lockbox at different periods, to see if you had even looked in it, based on whether anything had been moved. I don’t know how you found me out, but I’m glad you did! It has weighed on my mind greatly. Take it back! I don’t even wish to know any more. The past is the past Michael, I swear I won’t think of it any longer.”

Stamford took the brooch from her, though his eyes never strayed from her distressed face. “There is no need for you to worry any longer my dear, there is no past lover I am harbouring feelings for,” he assured her with his usual soft, pleasant voice. “It was my late sister’s. I hadn’t realized there was a message to her from a lover inside, though I suppose that was quite oblivious of me. It is one of my few keepsakes of her, which is why I placed it in the safe.”

Mrs Stamford’s body sagged into her husband’s arms. “Then I imagined it all, for naught! I was so terrified of asking you Michael, I was afraid of what the truth might be, but now I am deeply embarrassed at not having just asked!”

“It is my fault as well,” Stamford admitted. “I should have told you what it was. I shouldn’t have kept even this small of a secret from you.”

Husband and wife embraced, and Watson shifted next to him, uncomfortable at bearing witness.  

“We should return,” Mrs Stamford declared. “Allow me to apologize once more for troubling you Mr Holmes, and you Captain Watson. Coming all the way out here, for a matter that could have been solved privately!”

Watson insisted it was no trouble, and Sherlock seconded it. “I assure you, I’m very grateful for the excuse to visit the countryside.” Towards the end of the statement, his glance slipped to Watson beside him. They shared a look that he prayed he was not imagining.

“We will return before our guests notice both hosts missing!” Stamford exclaimed. “Shall we see the two of you again as well?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said, “But I think we might stay back for a moment. Watson must catch his breath from all the dancing.”

Stamford laughed and clapped him on the back on his exit, relief over having his brooch returned to him evident.

“Well, I do believe I’ve caught my ‘man’,” he said to Watson, closing the door behind the Stamfords with a wink.

The look he received was warmer than he had expected, and new meaning became clear. “Indeed,” Watson replied. The moment passed.

“An incredible turn of events,” Watson commented. “And if they had only communicated with one another in private—her about her imagined jealousy, and him of his relationship with the owner—nothing would have ever needed to come of it.”

Sherlock nodded. How much one conversation could have solved.

“His wife, of all people!” Watson exclaimed, still shocked.

Sherlock hummed.

“And you knew before she came into the room,” Watson said, remembering. “You knew it was her the entire time?”

“I didn’t when we first arrived,” Sherlock said. “Too little data. But I noticed a marked change in her demeanour between when she first greeted us, and later in the evening. She must have checked the drawer in between.”

“Earlier, when she almost spilled her glass,” Watson said in realization. “You realized that she was jealous and playing a scheme of her own, all from that?”

“There were a few other tells but yes,” Sherlock replied, experiencing difficulty maintaining Watson’s direct gaze. He ambled towards the fireplace, picking up the poker from its stand to busy his hands.

“But why did you not tell Stamford before?” Watson asked.

Sherlock paused, back still turned. With hesitance, he looked over his shoulder. “It’s not an easy thing to tell a man it was his wife, all along.”

Watson seemed to find that amusing. “Is this your brand of kindness?”

Sherlock scoffed. “I think you’ll find I am not a kind man. Many consider me exceedingly disagreeable in fact, including many of the party here this evening.”

“They’re all idiots,” Watson said, and Sherlock turned to face him in surprise. “And I beg to differ, sir. Going out of your way to help a friend with such a scheme.” Watson lifted one finger, looking arch indeed. “I think you might be quite the bleeding heart, in fact.”

Sherlock, embarrassed, could only mutter “nonsense” beneath his breath. A beat passed, Sherlock too affected by Watson’s words to further comment.

Watson cleared his throat. “Well, all the same, it was brilliant of you to have already known, before her confession.”

It was the third time Watson had used that word with regards to him in a handful of hours. He felt his face grow warm. “An easy enough deduction.”

“You must think me easily impressed,” Watson murmured, chin dipping towards his chest.

“No! I think quite the opposite if you must know,” Sherlock said, leaving the poker where he’d found it, and returning across the room. “I am, in all honesty, delighted to meet with your approval.”

Watson’s head lifted, chin higher by several inches, back firm and proud once more. “That’s—erm—good. As you do. Meet with my approval, that is.”

The words were stilted, awkward in their delivery, but Watson’s eyes on him were steady.

From across the hall, the first strong note of a new dance rang out. They continued to observe one another while listening to the sounds of soft feet hitting the floor, and the clapping of hands at the appropriate intervals.

For once, Sherlock felt driven to take a risk. “I actually love to dance,” he said. It was abrupt, judging by Watson’s surprised reaction. “I’ve always loved it.”

Watson blinked, seeming to digest the confession. “But you don’t dance, as a rule? You said you ‘live in wait of the right partner.’”

Sherlock nodded, pleased that Watson had remembered his words so clearly. The moment stretched out between them. Too long. Regret began to grow within him, a queasy feeling starting in the pit of his stomach. He had gambled too much.

But then—slow and uncertain, Watson extended his arm toward him, in the fashion of a gentleman offering to lead a lady to the dance floor.

Watson was as nervous by his gesture as Sherlock had been admitting his fondness for the act, and he put Watson out of his misery as soon as he was able, by placing his hand in Watson’s palm.

Watson smiled with relief, and Sherlock was led to the center of the room, where the dancers might have congregated had there been a pianoforte on hand in this room. Watson waited for the start of the jig across the hall, and then they were off.

Per the style, they hardly touched at all. They danced forward and then back, palms pressing against palms in a turn, gloved hands held during forward steps, repeating the movements of a formation dance, but without the other participants. Captain Watson, like any gentleman, was experienced in the steps, and led Sherlock with a calm proficiency that was more designed to show off his partner’s skills than his own. Sherlock felt light with it, which threatened to tip over into giddiness.

The music and the dance finished on one last lingering note of the instrument, but instead of breaking away to clap for the musician as was common, Watson continued to hold Sherlock’s hand in his.

“Did I meet your standards?” Watson asked. “As the dance partner you wished for?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice hardly louder than an exhaled breath. “You have surpassed them, in every way.”

Watson’s gaze flickered to the closed door, then back to Sherlock. A decision made, Watson pulled on his hand. As Sherlock was drawn into his orbit, Watson shifted up on the balls of his feet to match his height.

And there, in the middle of a gentleman’s drawing room with the door unlocked, Captain Watson kissed him. A slight press at first, and then when Sherlock responded with a thrilled gasp, Watson’s open mouth slid over his own. Sherlock was certain there was excellent technique at play, but he could not do much more beyond kiss the man back and think to himself with flustered excitement, _Captain Watson is kissing me_.

“You might call me John now, if you like,” Watson murmured, before kissing the corner of his mouth.

He hadn’t realized he’d been speaking aloud.

“That would be rather forward of me,” Sherlock replied, words airy. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

John’s laugh in response was more like a giggle. John, as it turned out, was the perfect height to place slow, soft kisses against Sherlock’s neck just above his cravat. He was also the perfect height to place kisses below his cravat, as became apparent when John loosened it.

As music and dancing continued beyond their door, his tailcoat was shed, and his waistcoat opened by skilled hands. His own hands were useless, grasping at John’s epaulets and holding on for dear life.

There was a nagging thought; a reason they shouldn’t be carrying on like this. It was unusual to find himself being the one to voice a reminder about decorum. “The other guests are just across the hall,” he said, dazed. “And servants. Anyone could walk in at any time.”

“We shall just have to be very quiet then,” John whispered, not letting his mouth trail away from Sherlock’s neck and jaw for more than moment.

“Hardly fail-safe,” Sherlock replied, though not for any fear that he felt himself, but as a test. Many men acted differently in a fit of passion than they would under other circumstances. Would Watson recoil and regret his actions when he returned to his senses?

John paused his ministrations. Perhaps this would be the end of it.

“I think I have a solution,” John said, and began moving them back towards the door to the room. Following his lead, Sherlock walked backward, until he was pressed against the door.

“Now if anyone tries to enter, they would be stopped by our weight, allowing us time to right ourselves. Not our fault if the door was jammed,” John explained, with faux innocence.   

“Ingenious,” Sherlock said, grinning helplessly, coats open and loose.

John seemed to abandon hope of ever getting him out of his shirts, as his hand then lowered to the top buttons of Sherlock’s breeches.

“You’re a very bad man,” Sherlock murmured as the first button came undone.  

John fingered the buttonhole before moving on to the second.

“Risky,” Sherlock said, thinking that it would take quite some time to ‘right’ himself if they were interrupted.

“That’s what we both like, isn’t it?” John replied, onto the third and last button. “That’s what you always say I crave.”

The flap of his fall front fell open, and without further ado, John’s hand snuck in. Sherlock moaned aloud, clasping a hand over his mouth, head knocking back against the wood of the door. John’s other arm grasped him around the waist.

Only, when he had ever told Captain Watson that he craved risk?

The thought left his head as soon as his arousal was exposed to the cooler air of the room. He jumped when John first put his hand on him, and started to stroke him in time with the kisses to his throat.

John’s thumb traced a maddening circle around his slit, smearing his early emissions, and making him groan.

“I wish you could make all the noise you liked, I wish the whole house would know,” John was saying, and Sherlock became louder beneath the hand he had cupped over his mouth.

The whole right side of his body was hot, even though John was pressed along his front. He was burning up, on fire, bucking his hips into John’s fist, and against the hard length he felt in John’s breeches. The room began to shake, the china on the mantelpiece tinkling, John’s voice low and encouraging in his ear.

When he came, white and hot into the palm of John’s hand, he lost his mind to another place.  

 

VI.

“That’s not at all how we met,” Watson was saying, pipe resting between thumb and forefinger. A familiar scene was before him; Watson in the chair across, a fire roaring on his right. He had been here before.

Of course he had; it was how they spent many an evening.

Watson leaned forward, frowning at him. “I was discharged before you met me. Why would I have been in military dress? What year even was it? Was I still active? Was I stationed nearby to train new troops? And what the devil is wrong with the way we actually did meet that you’re imagining it another way?”

“All of those things are entirely plausible!” Sherlock argued, offended that even his imaginings might have contained incorrect details. “But you’re right. It was just a dream. We were in the past, by several decades in fact.” Offhand, with a line between his brows he said, “I suppose I traded the future in for that.”

“First a wife and now this,” Watson said, still disgruntled. “Are you certain you are quite well?”

It seemed that no matter where he awoke, John Watson always wanted to know if Sherlock was well. “I assure you that I am, Watson.”

“These elaborate fantasies. You must tell me if your condition worsens, Sherlock.”

He blinked, once long, and then multiple times in quick succession. “Since when do you call me Sherlock?”

“Since you called me John at the falls.” Watson’s frown deepened. “If it is too familiar, I understand—”

“No, not at all,” Sherlock rushed to assure him. “Between us, it feels natural.”

Watson’s expression lightened considerably, for which he was glad. Watson was still worried, but about what? “What do you mean to ask about by my condition? What condition?”

“Your use of that damnable stuff! What else could I mean?”

There was something he had learned since the falls, itching again, fighting to reach the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t quite recall it, but with certainty he knew it meant there would be no more drugs.

“That won’t worsen, I can guarantee. In fact, I plan to no longer partake. It’s behind me and for good this time. I have the real thing now,” he said, with the impression that he was repeating himself.

“Oh, and what’s the real thing?” Watson asked.

Sherlock swallowed. “A case, of course. One came in the mail yesterday, did it not?”

Perhaps one that shared striking similarities to the Regency era-inspired case he had dreamt up. Yes, that would explain his wild imaginings. Of course.  

“It can have, if you like,” Watson replied, eyes sad.

Sherlock slid sideways in his chair, feeling as if the room had tilted. “What do you mean, if I like?”

But Watson didn’t answer; he just stared back at him with those tired eyes, the bags beneath them more apparent than ever. It was more than he could bear.

Sherlock stood from his chair, pacing to the fireplace.

“Don’t look at me like that, as if you don’t believe me,” Sherlock said, assuming it was about the drugs. It was always about the drugs. “Shout at me if you don’t think I’ll go through with it, but for the love of God don’t look at me like that!”

“Shout at you, when you are unwell?” Watson repeated, twisting in his chair to observe him. “Is that what you think of me? Your bully?”

For a moment, superimposed over Watson’s face was another’s. It was still Watson, but without a moustache, and dressed in a vibrant blue wool with a collared shirt underneath. His mouth formed angry words, but what Sherlock heard was disconnected from the movement. Unprincipled drug addict. Show-off. Smart arse. Always getting his way.

When Watson’s face faded, till he was only one man rather than two, the gravity of his expression made him even harder to look at. In a hushed voice, Watson asked, “Do you think he’d like it, if he knew that’s what you hear him say?”

Sherlock’s nervous energy turned inward and froze him where he stood. “Who?”

The silence stretched while Watson watched him, considering him. “You know very well who.”

Sherlock returned to his chair, without any conscious choice of his own behind the action. He did know. He had known all along. John, in the future, who was very much real, sitting in a hospital chair.

And no, John wouldn’t have liked that. He wouldn’t have liked knowing Sherlock thought those things. Would he? But Sherlock could play out every time John had been angry with him, internalized down to his very core, so deeply seated that he couldn’t shake them; the hurt, concerned, snapping expressions hanging over him like a disproving conscious at a disconnect from himself.

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock said, hands grasping at the roots of his slicked back, restrained hair. “I can’t ever know for sure that what you say is him, or me. You are, all of you, merely created in his image!”

“Good Lord, is he a God to you?” Watson asked, unperturbed. “While you play that role with us.”

“You know what he is to me,” Sherlock replied in defeat. If he was aware of this all being an illusion now, then this Watson knew it all as well, and could see into the depths of his heart. There was no use constructing his barriers and concealments, not from himself.

“More than that,” Watson said with a sigh. “I know what you wish he was to you.”

Sherlock could make no reply. He had been flayed bare, and by a figment wearing the face of the man he wished for.  

Watson stood from his chair, pipe forgotten, to approach him. Sherlock remained sitting in morose stillness, but he stood when Watson came towards him, forcing Watson to crane his neck to look into his eyes.

Watson rose to the challenge. “I wonder if I might ask you a personal question, Sherlock, now that we are on familiar terms.”

“By all means,” Sherlock said, feeling his brows meet in confusion.

“Why go deeper into the past rather than play that fantasy out with me, whom you know much better?” Watson asked. It was the most put-out he had been the entire conversation. “You created a whole other version of me, for Heaven’s sake.”

“Jealous?” Sherlock quipped.

“Incredibly,” Watson murmured, with no interest in hiding the fact. “But you answered my question with a question. You see, your Boswell is learning.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile, though he still wished to evade the question.

“Come now, why a whole other story,” Watson insisted, rocking back on his heels. “There must be a reason.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed, but when he opened them again, he was still in the Victorian furnished sitting room.

“Because I — I don’t know how it would be,” he said, the honesty of it freeing. There had never been someone with whom he could discuss these thoughts that pressed in on him from all sides. Once he started telling truths, he feared it would all come pouring out. He reached for Watson, his anchor within the room, holding on to his forearm.

“For us to start so late, after we have been friends and colleagues for so long... After the first blush of flirtation has passed, and all we do is dance around one another, again, and again. How does one proceed? How does anyone?”

Watson did not seem to mind his strong grip, or the vehemence of his speech.

“Someone has to make the first move,” Watson suggested. “Perhaps the person who has rebuffed the other many times in the past. The one who has made the other think he no longer stands a chance. I believe you might have recently learned the importance of communication in a relationship?”

Jane and Mike Stamford. The Watson of his mind knew it all, he supposed.

“God, must you always be right!” Sherlock cried, though it sounded too fond to be a true complaint.

Watson snorted, and then began to laugh. A deep belly aching laugh.

Sherlock squinted at him. “What? What is it?”

“Only you think that,” Watson replied, eyes crinkled with mirth. Calming himself, he placed one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock felt his body tip into the one point of contact.

“Perhaps you should let him know.”

 

 

VII.

Head slumped forward onto his chest, John was fast asleep in the chair beside him. John was going to have a crick in his neck when he woke up. He would rub at the back of his neck with a frown and try to crack it by twisting his head, with his forehead wrinkling with oncoming grumpiness. Sherlock knew exactly how it would all play out as if it had already happened. Once, he’d been able study John Watson as much as he liked, and seen it all firsthand. Now, being able to observe John asleep sitting up seemed like a novelty once more.

Sherlock was relieved to find John hadn’t been watching him when he’d come back to reality. He didn’t know how much his body had responded to the acts within his head, nor did he want to find out. Even if there had been no signs, it was somewhat difficult to face John so soon after.

He would have to, regardless, as John began to stir. Sherlock willed the redness from his cheeks, even though John would chalk anything about his appearance up to his unwellness.

Sherlock was able to watch John’s eyes open, bleary and confused at first, before they fell on him with recognition. John’s disorientation transforming into warmth before him was well worth it.

John moved through each of the reactions to his stiff neck that Sherlock had just imagined. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth tipped upward.

“You were gone for longer that time,” John commented, voice fuzzy with sleep.

“I went too deep,” Sherlock said. “Too far back, actually. But I’m here now to stay.”

John smiled with his brows pulled together. “That’s good? I think.”

“John,” Sherlock said, reaching for the control on the bed, and raising himself to a reclined position. “I’m—I want to be honest. With you. Like I said before I drifted off.”

“Okay. Take it easy.” John’s hands had moved forward in a defensive position, as if to spot him while a hospital bed lifted his torso at a glacial pace. “What is this all about, then?”

“What would you say—that is, how would you—” he broke off, eyes squeezing shut. He couldn’t second guess himself now. “What I’m trying to say is, I believe there is still a danger to us. Close at hand.”

When he opened his eyes, John was staring back at him. “You mean Mary.”

Sherlock blinked.

Tentative, hesitant, he said, “Yes?”

John was still his same, stalwart self. John wore his lack of surprise like he’d once worn confusion. Like he had been waiting for Sherlock to get on the same page as him, and was relieved Sherlock had finally caught up.

“Yeah, I sort of got that impression after I found out she shot you. And then again, when she made it clear she would have shot you again had you not projected her face onto the bloody building.”

The lights in the room were dimmer than they had been earlier, and the door was closed. It was late, after midnight, on a quiet ward floor, and John had just said—

“You mean you haven’t trusted her since that night?” Sherlock asked, piecing it together. But he had put so much effort into convincing John to trust her after the fact, so that John would be safe—

John looked at him as if he were the one who was being baffling. “Sherlock, how could I possibly?”

“But, you got back together with her! At Christmas,” Sherlock said, speaking each word slowly, as if perhaps John had forgotten.

“Yeah, because you told me to!” John’s exasperation with him was growing, which was rather uncalled for, seeing as John was the one being surprising.  

“Did I?” When had he done that?

“You said _‘John, come for Christmas at my parents,’_ ” John mimicked a poor approximation of Sherlock’s voice. “And then once I’d said yes, _‘Oh, by the way, Mary’s coming too.’_ ” John’s voice devolved into a low growl by the end of it, really not sounding much like Sherlock at all.

Ah. So John had understood it was a setup. He had gone along with Sherlock’s hinted suggestion, without question, without conflict, still trusting him.

Though, not trusting him enough to say he understood Sherlock’s plan.

“I thought with the two of you on good terms, with you as her husband, it would keep you safe,” Sherlock explained. It was close to an apology. Almost.

“And you couldn’t have just told me that? Like a grown-up?” John sounded tired, but Sherlock heard what he imagined was tight, repressed anger. Angry in the way that John often reserved for him, and which had the potential to end with blood spilling from his nose. The kind of anger that made him fear that John would eventually leave him for good.

“You’d react like you’re reacting now!” he cried, put on the defensive, which did nothing to placate John. But no, _no_ —he couldn’t keep John with him like this. Shutting John out and operating alone was his greatest mistake, repeated time and again.

Before John’s fury with him could mount, Sherlock surrendered. “I’m sorry, you’re right, you are.”

John let him speak, and waited. There were no threats, or kicking of ottomans. Was John not angry with him?

Sherlock bit his lip, and coaxed himself to say the words. “I truly am sorry, about that as well as everything else, but I am being honest now. Will you let me John? Or is it too late?”

John’s face crumpled before his eyes, that simmering tension seeping from him, only to be replaced with the soft sadness from before. “Too late? I thought you said the game was never over.”

Sherlock felt like he might laugh or cry, and tried with all his might to do neither.

“If I say we are working against her, you won’t—punch my bloody lights out?”

“Uh, no,” John said, face scrunching in delightful confusion. “Why—? When the hell have I ever said that?”

Sherlock laughed, helpless with it. He felt as if he hadn’t laughed in decades. Eras, even. “You haven’t. But you must admit it sounds like something you would say.”

John glared at him, but it was a teasing look, rather than truly angry. Sherlock could tell the difference. He knew John very well, after all.

“I will have to stay with her,” John said, continuing the important bit of the conversation. “As you orchestrated that, I’m sure that’s not a surprise to you. It won’t be too hard to hide in plain sight, either. She thinks I’m even more of an idiot than you do. Plus she’s an egomaniac. The last thing she’d suspect would be for me to have not actually forgiven her. She thinks people can’t resist her manipulation.”

While annoyed that Mary did indeed think those things, Sherlock couldn’t help but be impressed. God, but John was smart. Once the veil had been lifted, he’d seen it all.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot at all, but you’re right that she does. You’re her blind spot,” Sherlock said in realization. “You in this, with me. It’s the key to fixing everything.”

“Us working together usually is,” John said, only glowering a little. “If you ever let me.”  

“I am sorry,” Sherlock repeated. He thought of a spiralling staircase with John abandoned at the top. “For everything. I’ll be different now, John. I’ve _been_ different.”

“I know,” John said, softening around the edges.

“John, you have to know that—” Sherlock swallowed. “If I have left you out, misguided as it is, I only ever did what I thought was best for you. Everything I do is for you.”

John’s eyes widened in apparent disbelief, overcome just from looking at Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” John said, sounding unsteady. He paused, and continued in a choked voice. “God, I’m so relieved, about all of it. That you’re going to be all right, that you’re actually telling me something, that you’re letting me help you—”

“John.” And in wanting to comfort him, Sherlock attempted to sit up further in the crinkling hospital bed.

John moved towards him, instinctively. John reached for his hand, gentle at first, and then squeezing, till Sherlock could feel their bones grind. Sherlock gripped back just as hard.

“It’s always been you,” Sherlock said to their joined hands, eyes flitting up to John’s and then back down, delirious with how much he wanted to admit.

The compulsion rose within him, and in his weakened state, he relented to it. Sherlock brought John’s hand to his mouth, and before he could stop himself, pressed a single kiss to John’s knuckles. His eyes shut tight; he wanted to do this, no matter John’s reaction, but he wasn’t ready to face the consequences just yet.  

When John didn’t pull back, Sherlock kissed his hand once more. It was a simple gesture, but it crossed a line Sherlock had only ever flirted with before. It felt more explicit than any fantasy of breeches and regimentals could.

John’s hand beneath his chin tipped his head upward, and still Sherlock resisted, keeping his eyes closed. He couldn’t hear anything over the beating of his own heart and his erratic breathing, loud on the exhale, sharp on the inhale.

John’s calloused hand was against his cheek, softer in touch than it looked. Even softer still was the pressure of thin lips against Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock gasped, mouth and eyes opening at once. When John drew back, his gaze was as terrified as Sherlock’s own. As always, they were one and the same.

“All right?” John asked, simple and open.

Sherlock nodded, shaky. He could feel John’s racing pulse through his hand, the same as his.

John watched his face when he leaned back in, seeming anxious about Sherlock’s reaction. It was clear to him now that John hadn’t known, he hadn’t ever known how Sherlock thought or felt. John had only had brief, doubtful glimpses into how deeply Sherlock’s devotion ran.

The second kiss was as sweet as the first, but tipped into urgent when Sherlock held John’s face in both his hands, running his fingers into John’s hair, grasping at any part of him he could touch. John’s hands cupped his jaw, and John kissed him, and kissed him. John’s hands began to drift lower on his body, seeking him out, but restrained.

“You’re still—” Sherlock thought to protest, breaking away. For so long, he had needed to remind himself that John was a married man; it was hard to break the habit.

“Only for now, only while it’s necessary. I’m not still—not where it counts,” John insisted, a hand on Sherlock’s jaw, pulling him back in. “I’m sorry too. I should be the one who’s sorry, for doing this to you.” John’s hand was on his chest, just below his ribs.

John’s misplaced guilt was not what Sherlock had wanted to trigger. “That wasn’t your fault, John,” Sherlock stressed. “And I won’t let anyone hurt us, not any more. Not when we’re—together.”

“That’s my line,” John said. “You’ve done enough protecting.”

Sherlock melted into the next press of lips to his jaw, his cheek, his forehead, and finally, his lips, boneless with relief. John was working with him now; John would take care of things.

There would be time for sorting that mess later, and time for him and John after that. Years and years of it, till this would all seem like a distant dream, a flash in the pan. A strange time when they’d been silly, and awful things had kept them apart.

Sherlock felt drowsy again. Too languid to return John’s kisses, Sherlock relaxed back into the pillow. John laughed, beneath his breath.

“What?” Sherlock asked, eyes drifting closed.

“Poor timing,” John said, and Sherlock breathed out a laugh at that as well.

“Later,” Sherlock promised. He curled both of his hands around one of John’s, tugging it to his chest, and then lifting it to his mouth.

Though the drug had long since passed from his system, there were Watsons behind his eyelids.

“I won’t be needing all of you any more,” Sherlock said, lips brushing John’s hand. “Now that I’ve got the real thing.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E for the button hole touching, though possible epilogue pending?


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first posted this I mentioned that an epilogue was pending, andddd here it is ! I really liked where the one-shot ended, but I also really wanted this closure, and now I get to have it all. Thanks to Anna for the beta!!

The next time John kissed him, the curtains of their living room were wide open. The dust in the air, normally unseen, was made visible by the light spilling in. Eloquent, as Sherlock had always thought. 

  
Though it was not their first time, it was nearly as momentous, as they had been kept apart for longer than Sherlock would have liked. It had been too risky to be with one another like this, as Sherlock had needed to remind himself approximately every millisecond of every day. 

 

But Sherlock had kept his promise: he hadn’t used again, living in wait of this long earned moment. 

 

This meant that Sherlock had never been fully immersed in his other worlds again, but he didn’t need drugs to remember. His imagination was healthy enough that vivid dreams and hallucinations didn’t ever need to fade; it was his mind that had created the imagery, after all. Sherlock could still see 221B with its antiquated furnishings if he wished to, and both of them in their restrained period trappings. 

 

What Sherlock had not needed to imagine since were the long, lingering, heated looks from John. For some time now he could only look, not touch, and Sherlock had been nearly driven mad with distraction. He threw himself headlong into resolving their final conflicts, keeping John at an arm’s distance. Knowing full well that John would have had him (innumerable times), had been in short, a torture. Still, he had persevered; there had been no Watsons to fill John’s place.  

 

He surprised himself when, as John drew back from him to change the pace of their slow, heated kiss, Sherlock said, “I’ve made you up inside my head.”

 

John appeared to be too happy to remain puzzled for long. “I really hope not,” he said, with a quick kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “That’d be bad news for me.” 

 

Sherlock considered explaining, but John’s mouth returned to his, and he didn’t feel much like talking after that. 

 

Unlike in the hospital, and every day since, John’s hands on his body were unrestrained; first stroking down his back and sides, then gripping his hips, and at last sliding back down to cup and grope. Sherlock couldn’t remember when he had ever been touched so thoroughly, if ever. The moan that escaped him seemed to suggest he had not. 

 

With their bodies pressed chest to chest, Sherlock’s mind drifted to the only explicit fantasy he had allowed himself while in another time. At once, he needed faster, needed John, and right that second—only, they were still in the living room. And John would probably insist on their first time being in a bed. 

 

Sherlock pulled away, freeing himself from John’s grasp. He had waited long enough; there was no time to lose. 

 

John’s face turned ashen. “God, Sherlock, I didn’t mean to rush things.” John swallowed, eyes cast down. “Sorry. I can do slow.”

 

Sherlock supposed they would need to continue misunderstanding each other in these small ways, if only to maintain their kind of normal. 

 

“Well, I can’t,” Sherlock said, and made his original reason for drawing back known by taking John’s hand, and tugging. “‘Do slow’, that is.” 

 

John met his eyes, first surprised, and then thrilled. Sherlock felt a smile grow.  “We were never ones for caution.” 

 

John’s light laugh in response warmed him to his core. 

 

After a moment of deliberation, Sherlock led them up the stairs, John’s hand still clasped in his. John didn’t question going to his room rather than Sherlock’s. Sherlock was relieved John didn’t. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to explain it, beyond the simple need to be at the highest level of their home. 

 

There was no leaving John at the top of the stairs, or dragging himself up each painful step to return to him. There was only John and him walking up together, hand in hand, to where John had lived while wanting him all those years. After reaching their destination, they were on each other once more, stumbling toward the bed. 

 

John had stayed at 221B before Christmas, and his room still had his leftover personal items. It seemed an age ago: Sherlock in the hospital from a bullet, and John staying away from his newly made marriage and home.

 

After hard, hot kisses that seemed to last for hours, Sherlock reached into John’s side drawer, and pushed one such personal item into John’s hand.

 

John startled. They weren’t even undressed yet, Sherlock realized. He might have been getting ahead of himself.

 

“We don’t have to—” John began, and Sherlock needed to stop him. 

 

“If you mean have sex at all,” Sherlock said. “I insist. If you mean the act that lubrication implies, I—” He cleared his throat. “I prefer additional stimulation. I’ve—done it before.”

 

“Oh,” John said. “Oh! Oh, right.” The cogs in John’s head were turning, and it was painful to watch. 

 

“Not with someone else,” Sherlock corrected, exasperated by the assumption. “By myself.” 

 

John’s eyes snapped onto him, and Sherlock felt himself flush all the way down to his chest. “Oh.” It was in a very different voice than before. “All right.” 

 

John undressed him. Slow, too slow, kissing along his throat, his chest, and then—

 

John’s hand dragged along his abdomen, down through the dusting of hair. Sherlock wanted it more than anything, and also knew he needed to hold off. “Not yet,” Sherlock said. “I’ll—it’ll be over too fast.”

 

John’s breathing quickened before he nodded, moving forward with what Sherlock had suggested. Sherlock’s imagination was impressive, but he did often overlook the smaller details, such as the snick of the cap opening, and the wait while John prepared his fingers, before preparing Sherlock. The first touch was light, circling, but on the intrusion Sherlock tensed. 

 

“Don’t stop.” When John looked torn, Sherlock reached down to hold John’s hand in place. “Just—distract me.”

 

John didn’t miss a beat. “You’ve never done—any of this? With anyone?” he asked, pushing into Sherlock’s body at the speed paint dried. 

 

“No,” Sherlock said. Even with the slow pace, his voice sounded strained. “Only you.”

 

John’s exhale sounded close to a laugh. “I think I would remember that.”

 

“In my head,” Sherlock clarified. 

 

“Is that what you meant?” John asked, sliding out, and then pushing back in. “When you said you’d made me up?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes fell closed. He nodded, his head tilting back against a pillow. 

 

John’s voice had dropped in pitch by the next question. “And what was I doing, in your head, hmm?” 

 

Sherlock knew what John assumed, and what John would think a wank fantasy would constitute; Sherlock’s mind creating a doll with John’s face, with perhaps a few of his mannerisms and the sound of his voice, hardly fleshed out at all. Just a cock or a mouth for Sherlock to use.

 

“It was 1816. You were a military Captain,” Sherlock began. “You wore the old red regimentals. We escaped from road vagabonds, caught a jewelry thief, and danced in the drawing room to the music across the hall.”

 

John’s finger inside him stopped moving. “Sorry, and I’m the romantic?”

 

When Sherlock had pictured this exact moment, he’d never supposed he would be smiling this much. “You are a romantic. Hopeless in fact.”

 

“That’s all very exciting,” John said, “but it’s not—this.” His finger slid home, before pausing again. 

 

Once Sherlock was done panting, he explained. “After we danced, you opened my breeches.”

 

John’s eyebrows shot up. “Rather daring of me.”

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Sherlock breathed out, half answer, half in response to John crooking his finger. They were back on track.

 

“And what did I do to you, once I opened the breeches?” John asked, almost as breathless as Sherlock, and with a dark note to the question. 

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder if this John would be jealous, like his Victorian counterpart. The idea of it was heady. “You kissed my neck, up against the door.”

 

John leaned across his body to nose along his neck, pressing a kiss to his collar bone. “That all?” John asked, straightening back up, and humour returning to his voice.

 

“He—you—”

 

“Like this?” John asked, and his hand wrapped around him in a fair approximation of Sherlock’s fantasy.  

 

John’s thumb teased his slit, pressing down until pre-come beaded up at the opening. Sherlock didn’t know where to focus; both of John’s hands were doing entirely too many incredible things. 

 

“The other you was jealous,” Sherlock blurted. “Are you?”

 

“Of myself?” John asked with a laugh. “In your head?” 

 

Sherlock leveled him with a look, and a slow, knowing smile.

 

“Fine, a bit, maybe.” John’s face pinched tight, ready to argue the point. “But not like that. Only, some version of me getting to be with you, like this, before we could—”

 

Kisses were peppered across his chest, his neck, his jaw, more than could be counted. Sherlock felt loved, adored, cherished, more than could be quantified. “He’s a lucky bastard, that’s all,” John murmured, and it was just the right thing to say. 

 

“Are you still interested in throwing caution to the wind?” John asked. His finger had slid out during their conversation, and he was now moving further back within the spread of Sherlock’s legs. 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered without hesitation. 

 

A second finger pressed along his rim, coaxing it to stretch, till it slid in along with the first. Sherlock’s head twisted to the side, face mashed into the pillow. When John’s tongue swept over the head of his cock, his gasp was smothered. 

 

Sherlock startled at the feeling of John’s mouth on him, a completely new sensation, impossible to imagine before having the experience. John’s tongue, always peeking out at the corner of his mouth and licking his lips, was sliding down the underside of his cock. 

 

Sherlock hadn’t realized how personal it would be. It wasn’t just receiving pleasure; it wasn’t just a hot, wet heat surrounding him. It was his John, loving and caring for him, which was exactly what he did best. There was a reason Sherlock had not done any of this with another person, and could never have done. Sherlock had never trusted anyone like he trusted John, had never been unapologetically himself with anyone other than John. John had seen him at every low and every high, and he would see him at every low and every high of this as well. 

 

Sherlock let John do all the work, watching as his head lifted and lowered over Sherlock’s lap, lavishing him with attention. One of John’s hands held the base of his cock, rubbing where his lips couldn’t reach, while the other still worked lower, two fingers catching on the rim each time they slid out. Sherlock couldn’t do much besides clench his legs, his knees curling in towards John’s head. Partly to keep John there, doing  _ that, _ but mostly a reflex, an instinctive response to the overwhelming intensity of the feeling. 

 

With Sherlock’s cock still resting on his tongue, John paused, allowing Sherlock a scant few seconds to gather himself. Some of the tension in his body released, and awareness of things outside of where John was touching him returned. Namely, the deep gasping breaths of air he was still taking in. But John’s stillness was explained not a moment later, when the finger still inside Sherlock’s body unerringly pressed against his prostate. 

 

A broken sound slipped past his lips. On the next soft caress, his cock jerked in John’s mouth. It was hard to tell with John still swallowing around him, but he had a feeling there was fluid dripping from him, pushed out by that gentle rubbing. 

 

John’s mouth slid off and back down again in quick succession, sucking him deeper than Sherlock had thought possible, along with the occasional press inside. Tension in his body was built anew, converging in on him from all sides. John swiping his tongue over the head of his cock, while his fingers continued their rubbing, not drawing away but pressing harder and for longer than any teasing touch before and—Sherlock was at once  _ there _ . 

 

His thighs gripped John’s head as the pressure applied from inside caused him to spill out, body shuddering as John swallowed around him. 

 

There was panting, and a wet spot on the pillow where his face was pressed. His name being said, accompanied by a tugging at his legs, and Sherlock remembered to release John from his grip. 

 

Sherlock hadn’t fully returned to himself, but had a feeling he might have bungled that. His mouth felt fuzzy, his lips hard to move. When he asked, “Did I hurt you?”, it was mumbled at best.

 

John was already back up the bed, by his side once more. “Not at all,” John assured him. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock pressed up into it. “I found the headlock flattering actually.” 

 

“You’d be the first.” 

 

“There you are,” John said. “Back to being snarky. You were out of it for a bit.”

 

Sherlock hummed.

 

“Good then?” John asked. “None of the Watsons did that, I reckon.”

 

Sherlock laughed. “Yes, you’ve given them all a run for their money. ” 

 

Sherlock turned partly onto his side, back facing John. John took the hint, sliding up behind him, and wrapping him up in his arms. When John reached for his hand, their fingers naturally entwined, and pressed against Sherlock’s chest like something precious. 

 

Sherlock stiffened at the hardness now against his back. He had completely forgotten, on their first time together—and him, a useless lump—

 

Sherlock shifted in their embrace, pushing back in what he hoped was an enticing manner. John groaned: promising. 

 

“Sorry. Don’t mind that,” John murmured, just below his ear. 

 

“I do mind.” At John’s attempt to move his hips away, “No, no, not like that. I haven’t done anything for you yet, and I meant to.”

 

“You’ve done plenty for me. God, Sherlock, you don’t know hot you just were.” 

 

Sherlock hoped his flush didn’t spread to the tips of his ears, as it sometimes did. “That’s not the same. That was still you… looking after me.”

 

Their clasped hands fell apart as John’s hand pulled away, moving to his shoulder to turn him back over. 

 

“I love looking after you,” John insisted, the blue of his eyes overwhelming when he was leaning up over Sherlock on one elbow. “You talked about your fantasies, earlier. Mine are—some of them, at least—you letting me in. You letting me take care of you.”

 

“John,” he said, but found he couldn’t continue. 

 

John joined their hands again, kissing Sherlock’s knuckles. “It will keep,” John said, with a slow smile. “Besides, we have a lifetime for you to return the favour.” 

 

Fearing what might come out if he spoke, Sherlock hummed in agreement, pulling John in for another kiss. There would be many more to come. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [shows up three weeks later with under 3k of extra...this] what can I say sex is weird


End file.
